The One with the Painting
by Debris K
Summary: McShep slash, Rodney's POV; "You came to see the infamous picture of Rodney McKay yourself, to make sure it doesn't, what, pose a threat to Atlantis security? Maybe by aging in my stead?"


**Author's Notes: ** Many thanks to skinscript for the beta; remaining errors are my own and you're welcome to point 'em out. This story is (vaguely) based on a manip I made ages ago, as requested by raphe1 in the 'drabble' meme. Also, there are small references made to the 3x15 episode "The Game", because I needed some plausibility somewhere in there.

* * *

This is the part that stops Rodney in his tracks: John doesn't snicker when he comes into the room. Some things are supposed to be constant, and Sheppard of all people should know better than to mess with stuff that Rodney needs to take for granted to make his brain work at its usual genius capacity. It's completely like him to act out in random fashion just to get on Rodney's nerves, though.

"Rodney," is all he says. Well, more like drawls, really; grown men should not be allowed to sound so petulant all the time. It's childish. And not endearing in a weirdly discomfiting way, at all.

"If that's all you've come to say then thank you for your eloquent input, now if you don't mind, I have some actual work to do," Rodney says, unsubtly moving to crowd John towards his still-open door. He's got important business, all right, and he's going to start with burning that monstrosity leaning against the wall of his quarters.

"Wow," John says next.

"What a wonderful vocabulary you have," Rodney mutters under his breath, still feeling resentful.

Everyone he's seen since Ronon returned from this morning's scheduled regular visit to M4D-058 has had a comment or three to offer. How lace was really Rodney's style, and how that hat went well with his nose, and that those old-fashioned hose always looked better on men several hundred years dead and buried, and so on and so forth. Ronon had not stopped snickering while he'd debriefed, and it was only through the mercy of a god Rodney had never believed in that he'd managed to stash the painting away before Zelenka could take any pictures.

"You must have very important military things to be doing, so you'll be going now," Rodney hazards an actual shove, but John's planted pretty firmly, apparently, as he barely budges an inch.

"Rodney, that's," John starts, and Rodney wishes he'd just get the mocking over with, already. But "wow," is all John ends up saying.

Before Rodney can start babbling defensively – he knows he does it, though that in no way means he has any actual control over it, or that if he did have control he'd magically know the right things to say instead – John's tearing his gaze away from the picture, blinking.

Hunh. Had John been actually _staring_?

"Rodney," he says again, and looks like he's only just realized Rodney's in the room. His eyes look weird – startled? since when does the Colonel get a deer-in-the-headlights look around atrocious baroque-style oils, Rodney wonders, mind churning – and his pupils are dilated.

John swallows with obvious difficulty, and his eyes slip back to the painting, seemingly of their own volition.

Oh. That's... interesting.

There's a minute of silence. Silence and staring. Continued silence and staring and, if Rodney's not wrong – and he's never wrong, thank you very much; well, not often enough to count, in any case –

"Wow?" Rodney helpfully suggests.

John swallows hard, again. "Er..." His eyes try to focus on the Rodney not staring down his nose regally at his presumably also Pegasus-oil painted subjects. "Yeah," he says.

He doesn't sound very sure about it. Rodney files that thought away for further analysis at some future date.

"John," he starts, but has to huff and click his fingers under John's nose to get his attention away from the painting again.

At least Sheppard has the good grace to look sheepish, though he only shrugs in his usual laconic manner. "Sorry," he drawls, though he doesn't sound very sorry. His voice is way too strained, for one.

For another, as long as Rodney has known him John's never actually tried to lie to him as hard as he's doing now. It's... still endearing, damn his reckless fly-boy hair.

"It's pretty impressive," John continues. He pauses, probably checking the effectiveness of his drawling tone. "The painting, I mean."

"The painting, you mean. Is impressive," Rodney repeats blandly, not amused.

"Yeah, well," John flushes – he could be blushing, and Rodney's tempted to check if their planet is still rotating on its axis – and sneaks another guilty-looking peek.

Oh, wow.

"Heard Ronon'd brought you back a present from the folks of Geldar, and," John pauses and seems to notice how close they're standing. He clears his throat.

"And – you came to see the infamous picture of Rodney McKay yourself, to make sure it doesn't, what, pose a threat to Atlantis security? Maybe by aging in my stead?" Rodney allows his amusement to enter his voice; John's already stopped paying attention to him.

"Yeah, I mean, yes, exactly, that's exactly what – wait, what?" John starts, whipping his head back around when Rodney takes that half-step closer.

"You're staring," Rodney says softly; John's face is close enough to his to taste his breath.

"Wow?" John hesitates, just as softly. Rodney notices he doesn't back away. His eyes are still all pupil, and his breathing's turned ragged.

Rodney's not sure who closes the last inch between them and kisses whom first. He suspects he doesn't care very much, not when John's making a relieved sound against his mouth and pushing himself closer to Rodney's body. If the way their tongues push and tangle together is any indication, John has stopped caring about the unimportant details, too.

Rodney's giving John's lips a thoroughly teasing nip with his teeth and diving straight back in when he hears the door shut and lock with a soft click behind him.

Good to know John still cares about some details; getting kicked out of the military would be pain on their newly-found sex life.

As he backs John towards the bed, their moans swallowed in the progress, Rodney decides, albeit grudgingly, that he might have to keep the blasted painting after all. Though he's drawing the line at hanging it above his bed; looking at his own face at night would be creepy. Maybe he can keep it in John's room. It'd match the curtains, if nothing else.

John makes a protesting noise against his mouth; oops, he might've let that last one slip out out loud. "I'd never get any work done," John argues weakly. Rodney nibbles on his other ear in retaliation.

"Guess we'll just have to make sure you get your productivity quota covered somewhere else then, won't we?" Rodney delights in the shiver that runs through John's body, and hums contentedly.

John makes an indignant sound and tries to wrestle Rodney under him on the bed.

(Pretty soon the never-to-be royal McKay's view is obstructed by a pair of pants that get tossed onto its frame, though it matters little to its disdainful glare. Everyone's a slow idiot compared to it, anyway.)


End file.
